


hold you by the edges

by sparksfulltime



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfulltime/pseuds/sparksfulltime
Summary: “You’ve got the magic touch, Wexler.”
Relationships: Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	hold you by the edges

Jimmy stretches up over the photocopier, his left hand clutching a crumpled piece of paper and the other hovering over the blinking keyboard, its yellow bursts tauntingly illuminating his palm. He holds himself still before quickly jabbing the start button with one finger, immediately pulling back as if burned, scooting his body back from the machine.

The unit begins to whirr and Jimmy raises both hands in fists above his head in triumph, the motion propelling him to rock back onto his heels, mouth stretching into a broad smile until—

A harsh grinding sound swells and his smile becomes a grimace, arms slumping as he smacks the keypad with his palm and the machine quiets again. Cursing under his breath, he squats down to open the tray and peers inside, the paper in his hand crunching as he balances himself. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kim glance up from her seat at the table behind him, hands never slowing as she efficiently sorts a stack of her own copies into neat piles. 

Jimmy slowly pulls a jammed page out of the feed and pokes at the gears, face scrunching up in concentration as he fumbles with the wheel. He stands after a few moments and begins to make his way towards the supply closet, shaping both sheets into a ball and tossing them towards the large plastic bin in the corner of the room, yelping as it hits the rim and bounces inside.

“Three points!” 

Yanking open the door, he rummages around in the giant bin of pens and pencils until he emerges with a chrome letter opener, tossing it from palm to palm, pushing the closet behind him closed with one foot.

Kim eyes Jimmy as he makes his way back across the room, placing the next sheet on its proper pile a bit more slowly then completely pausing as she watches him kneel in front of the drawer once again.

“Jimmy,” she sighs. “Do you need help?”

“Nope,” he squints at the cogs inside, maneuvering the letter opener into place. “I got it.”

“Jimmy,” Kim says, more firmly this time, rising to stand from the chair. “You cannot stick that into the printer.”

“There’s gotta be another piece in there!” Jimmy leans back into a squat, arms flinging wide, letter opener slicing through the air. “I’ve tried everything else Burt showed me.”

He picks himself up as Kim maneuvers out from around the table, holding out her palm when she comes to stand beside him.

“First of all, give me that.”

Jimmy reluctantly hands over the letter opener, watching as Kim places it on the table next to her abandoned project and hikes up her skirt an inch, resuming Jimmy’s position. Her nose wrinkles slightly as she runs a finger along the gears, and he makes a huffing sound. 

“See?” Jimmy says, crossing his arms, and Kim shoots him a look, pursing her lips as she stands halfway. Taking hold of each side of the drawer, she shimmies it all the way out, placing it carefully on the floor between the two of them and rolling up the sleeve of her sweater as she prepares to crouch again.

“Ah— no,” Jimmy jumps towards the printer, motioning Kim back. “Let me. The ink,” he protests, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt, rolling it up to the elbow and she acquiesces, stepping back to let him kneel and insert his forearm into the drawer slide.

“Alright,” Kim instructs, “reach up behind the feed wheels and feel along the edge to see if there’s anything to grab.”

Jimmy fumbles his hand around, looking up towards the ceiling as he leans further into the copier. 

“Anything?” Kim bends at the waist, peering into the dark where Jimmy’s arm has disappeared and he grunts in response, guiding his hand along the inner seam. The room is silent save for its usual soft, mechanical hum, and his gaze drifts towards Kim’s face, watching her worry her lip. 

After a few moments, his brow relaxes, expression turning victorious as he braces himself against the outside of the copier and slowly draws his arm out. Picking himself up to stand, he brandishes a torn corner of paper between his fingers, a tiny triangle trophy smeared with black ink.

The edges of Kim’s lips curve upwards as he dramatically lets the scrap flutter from his hand into the trash next to the copier and he pushes his hair away from his forehead, raising his ink-stained hand for a high-five.

“Jimmy, no,” Kim laughs, raising her hands in front of her face as if to fend him off and that makes Jimmy look at his hand and laugh too, sheepishly bringing it down by his side. She’s still smiling when she relaxes her arms, and he’s acutely aware of how pleased he feels to hear the affectionate way his name rolled off Kim’s tongue.

Before he realizes what’s happening, she makes a _tsk_ sound and licks her thumb, stepping towards him to swipe gently at his forehead and turning her palm to show him a smudge of ink. She rubs her fingers together, watching the mark disappear before turning back towards the copier, and Jimmy has to resist the urge to bring his own hand up to the spot she just touched. The room’s air conditioning suddenly feels like a shock to his system, magnifying the cool stripe made by Kim’s finger, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“Went better than my first paper jam,” she remarks, bending down to grab the tray and shimmying it back into its tracks, and Jimmy watches her pause to straighten the stack of paper before pushing it closed. “I had a second-year associate breathing down my neck and no mailroom buddies to be found.”

He makes a sympathetic sound in response, joining her at the copier as they both stare down at the blinking yellow button. “Does that make you my mailroom buddy?”

Kim tilts her head to face him. “Maybe. If you play your cards right.”

He keeps his face solemn, nodding, then gestures between them. “Would you like to do the honors?”

She punches the button and it blinks yellow once more before the machine whirrs to life again, this time picking up a steady, discordant buzz as copies begin to _whoosh_ into the printer tray.

“You’ve got the magic touch, Wexler,” Jimmy says, rocking back on his heels, and Kim turns to head back to the table.

“I know.”

//

Jimmy pushes open the door to the parking garage and lets it slam behind him, the metal clang echoing inside his skull. 

“Hey,” comes a voice from his left and he turns to see Kim, a shadow backlit by the orange-pink sunset beyond the garage, smoke trailing from the cigarette in her hand.

“Hiya.” Jimmy shuffles over to lean against the wall next to her, head tipping back for a heavy exhale, staring up at the beams above their heads. He feels more than he sees Kim pull the pack out of her purse and shakes his head, bringing the heels of his hands to press into his eyes and then dragging them up slowly to his hairline, rubbing his head before dropping them to his sides.

“Can’t,” he says simply. “Dinner at Chuck’s tonight. Rebecca hates the smell.”

Kim tucks the pack away and takes another drag, eyes still on Jimmy’s face, turning her head away momentarily to exhale.

“Did something happen?” She asks after a few beats of silence. “With Chuck?”

“Nah,” Jimmy lets his head roll onto his shoulder, finally meeting her gaze. “Dinner will be fine. I heard halibut is on the menu.” He puts on a slight British lilt for _halibut_ and she smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Jimmy. What’s up?”

He sighs again, looking straight ahead. “Bad afternoon, that’s all. Dolores messed up the binders for Santos.”

Kim murmurs sympathetically and joins him to lean back against the wall, standing shoulder to shoulder. “How much time did they take to redo?”

He waves his hand.

“It wasn’t that,” he says, shaking his head. “She got absolutely reamed by Rafael, which was... it’s her third week, you know? I told him it was my fault.”

“ _Jimmy_ ,” She repeats his name, softly this time, and he knows exactly how she’s looking at him so he keeps his eyes ahead, squeezing them shut. 

“Not looking for a pat on the back, I’m just... tired of having to watch people be so shitty.” Jimmy opens his eyes, splaying his arms out in front of him. “I’m tired of having to watch people _take_ shitty treatment just because they don’t have a nameplate, or an office, or drive a goddamn Jaguar.”

Kim is silent, the quiet crackling of the tobacco the only sound between them as she inhales. Jimmy scuffs the sole of his loafer against the pavement, finally looking back at her.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

It’s Kim’s turn to wave her hand, cutting him off as she breathes out. Jimmy’s eyes follow the curl of smoke, the red _O_ of her lips hazy through the fog.

“How was your meeting with Howard?” 

“More of an excuse for him to hear himself talk than for me to get any actionable advice, but,” she shrugs. “Anything helps to make a good impression, I think.”

Jimmy wants to tell her that she’s made a good impression on this place since the day she started in the mailroom, that she doesn’t need Howard’s advice to ace the bar exam, that hiring her in the fall would be the smartest thing HHM had ever done. But instead, he reaches out to grab the cigarette, his fingers skimming over Kim’s as he expertly maneuvers it from her grip.

He brings it to his mouth and takes a long drag, holding it a second too long, relishing the burn in his lungs right before he releases the breath. Kim’s hand dangles midair for a moment before she rolls her wrist, bringing her elbow down to rest against her hip.

“I’m sure Dolores is great, but the bar is only a couple of weeks away, now,” she says. “At least I’ll be back soon to save you from further wrath.”

The unspoken _for now_ hangs in the air between them like smoke, and Jimmy laughs hollowly. “Yeah.”

He knows he’s being unfair to Kim right now, knows that he doesn’t want her to stay in the mailroom any more than he wants to be there himself; but he can’t help feeling frustrated that she’s not understanding why he’s upset about the temp, and even more frustrated at not being able to articulate it himself.

He stares down the rows of empty parking spots, white lines extending endlessly into the darkness, and he suddenly can see his life in Albuquerque stretching out before him just as clearly. Chuck continues to rise higher; Kim drifts up and away, the gulf between them growing wider, and Jimmy is stuck. In the mailroom, in his brother’s shadow, in this constant state of limbo.

“You done?”

Jimmy realizes the cigarette is hanging limply from his mouth, and he snaps his gaze to Kim just as she plucks it back. Her fingers momentarily brush his lips and an electric jolt zips down his spine, the nicotine’s pleasant buzz suddenly growing louder until he feels like he can hear it in his ears. Her hand stills halfway between them and her look is almost quizzical, but he can see her chest hitch beneath the open buttons of her blouse and he studies her necklace, the harsh overhead lights glinting off the thin chain as it twitches faintly over her pulse point.

Kim is the one to break their connection, now, taking a final drag of her cigarette and dropping the butt to the ground, pushing off the wall and crushing it beneath the ball of her foot.

“I should head home,” she says, turning to face him again. “My studying schedule for the day is already shot.”

“Ah,” Jimmy claps his hands and rubs his palms together, snapping himself out of it. “Just to confirm, today’s schedule does still involve sleeping, correct?”

“Mmm. Perhaps a solid three or four hours between cups of coffee.”

“All work and no play...” he starts, and there’s a real smile from Kim, even as she shakes her head at him. “Can I give you a call after dinner, is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Kim says, her smile becoming softer, eyes searching his face for another moment before she turns to head for her car and waves a hand behind her. “Good luck. I’ll talk to you later.”

The gnawing discomfort in Jimmy’s stomach grows as he watches Kim slide into the driver’s seat and out of view, the prospect of a night at Chuck’s feeling heavier than it had minutes before. Finding himself craving a smoke despite his earlier protests, he flutters the fingers of his right hand, watching Kim drive off.

As her car disappears from view, the painted white lines on the concrete come into focus once again, and this time he tries to imagine them hitting the darkness only just before they reach the sunset on the other side of the wall. Pushing himself up to stand, he clocks each one he passes on the walk to his car, propelling himself forward.

//

Kim’s palms press solidly against Jimmy’s chest through the fabric of his shirt, his body pinned to the back of the sofa as she straddles his lap. Her tongue slides into his mouth and he groans, the textbook between them shifting as she slides her hands up his chest and into his hair, scratching her nails against his scalp. 

Jimmy’s hands fist in the hem of her t-shirt, tugging up until their mouths break away with a wet _pop_ and he finally gets it over her head, tossing it onto the coffee table. He brings a hand up to gingerly grab one of the blonde strands now escaping her ponytail and Kim leans into his touch momentarily, tilting her head and closing her eyes. She brings her own hand up to tangle her fingers with his, an unsustainable, messy grip; and when her eyes open again they’re darker, hungrier. 

She drags their hands away from her face and leans forward to kiss him again, their fingers still knotted together clumsily, her denim-clad legs sliding against his dress pants. The textbook skids uncomfortably over his lap as she tries to move her body closer, and Jimmy removes his hand from her grip, reaching between them to shove it aside. Kim mumbles something unintelligible against his lips and he kisses the seam of her mouth, across her cheek, down her jaw.

“Hmm?” Jimmy hums, mouth hot on her pulse point and he feels her head shake against the crown of his head in response, wordlessly gripping his shoulders; so he twists an arm around her back to unhook her bra, guiding it down her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. 

Kim tugs at his dress pants, popping the tiny discs of his shirt one by one and Jimmy’s hand coasts up her torso, palm cupping her breast as his other hand rests on her lower back, holding her to him. His thumb flicks a nipple and her hands fumble on his buttons, hips canting towards him as she unwittingly seeks friction. 

He leans forward to kiss her sternum and she sighs, pushing his shirt off shoulders and breaking contact to impatiently drag his undershirt up over his head. 

“They’re probably getting lonely down there,” Jimmy says, head managing to nod towards their growing pile of clothes while still dragging a sloppy kiss across her chest, one thumb circling her nipple and the other hand coming to finger one of her belt loops. “Should these join them?”

“What?” Kim chokes out, but she sounds amused, grabbing his head as if she wants to pull him back to look him in the face but can’t bring herself to open the distance, fingers closing around his ear instead. 

“Your jeans,” he says, popping the top button, ghosting the waistband of her underwear. “Off?”

She complies, pushing herself backwards off his lap and shimmying out of them, and Jimmy’s mouth goes dry at the sight of her standing in only her underwear; the feeling in his chest as strong as the first time, every time. He takes the hand she holds out for him expectantly and boomerangs into her as Kim goes straight for his belt, making quick work of his dress pants, shoving a hand into the elastic of his boxers before he can even step out of them. 

“Whoa,” Jimmy grabs her wrist, slowing her in order to totter to the couch until the backs of his legs hit cushion and he tumbles down, pulling her into his lap again. They both laugh as they knock together, Kim’s dark eyes still sparkling blue and he swallows, dancing his fingers up her thighs, wishing he could bottle this feeling. 

He continues his ascent and lightly whirls the pads of his fingers at the crease of her thigh, back and forth across the front of her underwear, only edging over where she wants to be touched and Kim makes a low, needy sound, one of her hands chasing Jimmy’s to control the direction, and he chuckles.

Giving in and peeling back the elastic of her underwear, two of his fingers stroke lower and lower until she whimpers, hips already pitching into his hand. He rubs small circles, alternating pressure and then continues lower still, one finger slipping into her before immediately pulling back out. 

She makes a growling sound low in her throat, hands clasping the back of his neck as she grinds down into his lap and Jimmy shifts, trying to ease his own growing discomfort. He starts up a rhythm with two fingers now, the heel of his hand pushing against her as she moves to further encircle his neck, grabbing at her own forearms. 

Kim kisses the side of his face sloppily, breath faltering out in gasps until her legs lock around his thighs, twitching as she comes, body spasming away from his touch.

Her face is flushed, arms still slung lightly around his neck and she pecks him on the mouth once, twice, chaste kisses as he removes his hand from her underwear. She loosens the grip of her knees, maneuvering to angle their bodies in a way that pushes Jimmy flat on his back, helping him lose his boxers and taking him in hand. 

He hisses at the sudden contact and she smirks, stroking him slowly as she leans down to kiss the line of his jaw.

“Kim, ah—” Jimmy struggles to form a coherent sentence. “My wallet’s empty, do you still have some— um...?”

She growls again; frustrated this time, releasing him to sit upright. “They’re in the other—” she starts, runs a hand over the top of her head, stops, and he would laugh at her reluctance to walk to the bedroom if he didn’t feel the same way. 

“Jimmy, do you need...?”

She trails off, and he startles until she meets his eyes and he realizes what she’s asking, the vulnerability in her face as open and visible as if it’s written across her cheeks. 

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” he says gently and sees the tiniest flicker of a smile before she leans down and kisses him, Jimmy’s surprised _mmmph_ ending in a clash of teeth and she rests her forehead against his. Pulling back, she shimmies her underwear down her legs, kicking them away and then slowly, she takes him in hand again and begins to guide him inside her. 

They remain like that for a moment, adjusting, their breaths the only sound in the room and then Kim lets herself fall forward, her palms two bursts of warmth searing into Jimmy’s chest as his hands hover around her waist, letting her set the pace. The glow from the lamp in the corner illuminates the wisps of blonde hair framing her face, creating the appearance of a halo as her loose ponytail sways behind her.

She sighs softly and opens her eyes, looking down at him as a lazy smile curls across her lips and he can’t help but grin, tentatively rolling his hips up to meet hers. Kim’s mouth opens slightly, nails scraping against him as she flexes her fingers and digs her knees into the cushions of the sofa.

His foot collides with the open textbook at the end of the couch and he grunts, kicking it aside so that it falls to the floor with a _thud_ and Kim looks back over her shoulder at the notecards spilled out in a fan on the carpet. She stills, frowning slightly and he can’t help but laugh, grabbing hold of her wrists with both hands.

“Kim.” He says her name firmly and she turns back, refocusing on his face and then attempting to swat at him, wriggling her arms out of his grasp and bringing her hands down to rest on either side of his head.

“How will you ever learn civil procedure now?” She whispers, slowly rocking her hips again, and he can feel her smile against his skin, hair tickling his chest.

“I’ll—” He groans, snaking a hand up behind her to palm her lower back. “I’ll live.”

She kisses him, swallowing the moan in his throat and he suddenly feels as though she’s everywhere, surrounding every part of him, hands rubbing his sides, cupping his chin, a knuckle scraping between them as she touches herself. 

At the same time, his own grasp on Kim feels as tenuous, slippery as the words on the flashcards he’s been trying to hold in his mind all night; he grapples for purchase as their hips get faster until suddenly she snaps, a stuttering moan escaping her lips as she goes boneless above him. 

Jimmy’s thumbs dig tightly into her hip bones as he holds himself still before Kim whispers a soft _okay_ and he thrusts up again, only needing a few moments before following her over the edge. 

They lay on the couch, Jimmy rubbing a pattern on her shoulder blade as she delicately presses a kiss to his chest. 

“I like this, by the way.” His hand catches the curl of her ponytail. “Cute, but you mean business.”

She huffs a laugh into his skin. “Thanks. Although it didn’t mean business so well an hour ago when you wouldn’t look at my flashcards.”

“Well,” he scoffs, but he can’t think of a further retort for once, settling for carding his fingers through her hair as they lapse into silence.

Kim’s breaths get slower, more even, and it takes a minute for Jimmy to realize that she’s fallen asleep. He feels a sudden surge of guilt for the time she took away from work for this and a simultaneous sense of relief that she’s getting rest, knowing how many extra hours she put in this week in order to be able to take the evening to help him study. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out his exam tomorrow, the next stretch of days that he knows he’ll go without seeing her, narrowing his thoughts to a pinpoint of her body weight stretched atop his and the gentle fingers loosely gripping his ribcage.

//

“Quit fidgeting,” Kim releases Jimmy’s hand to slap his wrist lightly and he jumps, nail salon chair scooting backwards as he tries to tug his wrist back.

“ _Ow_ ,” he whines at Kim’s tightened grip, her eyes glancing up quickly before returning to the bottle of nail polish.

“How do you expect me to work if you won’t sit still?” She chastises him, dunking the brush a few times.

Jimmy watches her graze the brush against the lip of the bottle and feels her grip shift to his thumb, nudging the rest of his hand lower and knotting her brow together as she paints a strip of lime green onto his nail.

“I thought manicures were supposed to involve some sort of massage,” he grumbles, shaking the cup in his other hand, ice rattling against plastic.

“That’ll cost you extra,” she says without looking up, brush continuing to coat neat lines onto his thumbnail. 

“As long as you’re the masseuse? Name your price.” 

Kim keeps her gaze down but smiles, angling Jimmy’s hand back and forth to examine her work, placing the brush back into the bottle and blowing on the wet polish. Heat curls low in his belly at the feel of her breath on his skin but he arranges his face into a neutral expression, throwing back a sip of tequila and letting it burn down the back of his throat.

“Nice,” she decides, releasing his hand and twisting the cap onto the bottle, pushing her chair back to pad over to the nail polish display in the middle of the salon. “What’s next?” She asks, placing the green back in its proper place.

“Manicurist’s choice,” he says over his shoulder, drumming the rest of his unpainted fingers against the mat.

She returns with a bright purple and he raises his eyebrows but quickly acquiesces, eyes flitting back and forth between the bottle and his hand. “Are we going for Barney?”

“Shut up,” she flops back into the chair, scooting forward. “I’m the artist here.”

She shakes the bottle before twisting it open, peering inside at the color.

“What does that do?” Jimmy makes a shaking motion with his free hand and Kim purses her lips in thought, blinking at the bottle a couple of times.

“I actually don’t know,” she admits, readying the brush and motioning for Jimmy’s hand. “I used to see my mom do it before painting her toenails.”

“Was she also into the rainbow look?”

“ _Strictly_ red,” she corrects him, dipping the brush back into the bottle for a second coat.

“Can’t all be as fashionable as me, I guess,” he says, trying to peer under her hand at the progress on his pointer finger.

“Hm,” she pulls her hand back to show him the finished product. “I like this one.” Dipping the brush back into the bottle for another round, she reaches for his middle finger, beginning to paint a fresh line.

“Great. Full Barney,” he leans back in the chair, bringing his other arm to dangle towards the floor, sloshing around the last of the tequila and ice. “Clients will love this.”

“What clients?” Kim deadpans, and Jimmy whistles, recoiling back in faux shock.

“Jesus, Wexler. Technical knockout.”

Kim holds him steadier and Jimmy lets his head roll back, enjoying the grounding feeling of her thumb pressing into the back of his hand, the gentle grip on his finger.

“How’s that case going, by the way? Sherman?” he asks, staring at the ceiling.

“Fine,” Kim says, squinting and running her own thumbnail around the edge of his, clearing a smudge. “I’ll be happy when I never have to read another property dispute from 1984, though.”

“What?” Jimmy’s head jumps up. “You’re doing doc review? I thought Howard put Mike Pruitt on this one with you?”

“Yeah. He did.” She doesn’t look up.

“Kim,” he says, pulling his hand out of her grip, resting his fingertips on the edge of the table. “He’s a first year associate.”

She looks him in the eye, brush still dangling in midair. “I know.”

He gapes at her, sitting up straight and placing his cup back on the table, condensation oozing onto the laminate.

“Kim, this isn’t right,” he starts and she lets out a frustrated sigh, capping and twisting the bottle despite Jimmy’s half-painted nail. “You need to say something.”

She barks out a laugh. “Say _what_ , Jimmy? To who?”

“I don’t know, Howard?” He sweeps an arm out to the side. “Make a case for why you deserve second chair? I thought he practically promised it to you!”

“Yeah, well,” She spreads her own fingers out against the mat, voice hard. “Turns out he didn’t.”

Jimmy laughs incredulously, scooting closer to the table, bringing his hands over hers. “Kim—”

“ _Stop_.” She pulls her hands away and meets his gaze now, her eyes flashing. “It’s not that simple, Jimmy.”

“It is that simple!” He practically yells. “They’re not treating you right!”

“Jimmy, just because you— because they didn’t—” 

Kim stops herself and Jimmy recoils in earnest, a moment of stunned silence hanging between them.

“I’m sorry,” she says, taking a breath. “I didn’t mean that. It’s a boy's club, and I’m just....”

“No, you’re right,” he says quietly. “It’s not that simple. I’m sorry.”

She looks across the table at him, eyes open and apologetic and after another moment he caves, placing his hands back on the table in front of her. Wordlessly, she gently gathers his half-painted hand in both of hers, elbows resting on the table as her thumbs rub along his knuckles, fingers massaging his palm.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Kim looking down at their hands, and for a strange moment, Jimmy is almost certain she’s about to press a kiss to the tips of his fingers, but instead she just pats him and places his hand back down on the table, picking up the bottle of purple polish.

He watches her unscrew the lid to resume her earlier progress, each tiny brush stroke contained neatly within the lines.

//

Light from the parking lot streams through the curtains of the bedroom, alarm clock blazing a red 2:31 AM as Jimmy lays on his side, staring at the splashes of yellow bouncing from the hardwood to carpet. 

Kim’s chest is pressed solidly against his back, her cast slung over his body, fingers loosely intertwined with his. Her breath is even as she sleeps, soft puffs of air against his neck, and he stares at her black dress from the funeral laid out on the chair across the room. She hadn’t bothered to hang it up before tugging on pajamas and silently undressing him as he lay fully clothed on top of the comforter, pulling off each shoe and sliding his dress slacks off, perching on the edge of the bed to unbutton his shirt and draw it out from under him.

He feels weighed down in a different way than he has since waking up that morning, like Kim is now the only thing preventing him from floating away, up through the ceiling, into the starry Albuquerque sky. 

_The truth is, you’ve never mattered all that much to me._

Chuck’s last words run on a loop through his brain and Jimmy closes his eyes like he can make them disappear but the image is bold in his mind, each letter painted red across the black behind his eyelids, flashes of color splotching as he squeezes them tighter. 

He releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he opens his eyes, static fuzz clouding his vision in the dark room. 

Kim shifts behind him, fingers twitching in his hand, leg stretching out against his. 

“You up?” Her voice is husky and she clears her throat, maneuvering her cast back towards her body and tilting him closer to her chest. 

He contemplates pretending for a moment before rolling onto his back, turning his head to face her. “Yeah. Sorry to wake you.”

“S’okay,” she mumbles, scooting closer and propping herself up on her good arm. Her other hand fingers his undershirt, the buttons on her tank top glinting in the dark, and he can see her eyes searching his face as he turns to stare up at the ceiling. The cuts on her face stand out despite the shadow of the room and he swallows thickly, closing his eyes.

“What do you need?” She asks, and her frankness almost makes it all roll out of his mouth immediately. His crocodile tears at the insurance agency, the glow of the lamps in Chuck’s home office, the slam of his brother’s door as it closed behind him for the last time. 

But before he can speak, his mind supplies him with the image of an airbag inflating on impact, a totaled car, a different image of the day’s funeral and he snaps his eyes open instead, pulling her down onto his chest and curling an arm around her back. “I’m good, Kim.”

The silence between them stretches on for so long that he assumes she’s fallen back to sleep, but then she takes a deep breath and exhales, turning her cheek to rub against his shirt. 

“Okay,” she says, tucking her cast between them and throwing her right leg over his, her weight comfortingly binding him to the earth again.

He promises himself that he’ll be better tomorrow; that he’ll figure it all out tomorrow.

//

They didn’t do rings, but he gets her one anyway.

It’s a year into their legal marriage when she haltingly accepts the small velvet black box as she stands in front of their open refrigerator, Jimmy unable to wait a single second after crashing through the front door.

“Jimmy,” she starts, and he can tell she wants to chastise him so he cuts her off at the pass.

“Open it—” He motions to the box, waving his hands. “No, just open it.”

She picks the plain gold band out of the box, and he can see the surprise on her face, can tell that she had clearly been expecting something as extravagant and tacky as the blow-up Statue of Liberty on the roof of his new office.

She slides it onto the fourth finger of her left hand herself, a smile slipping up and down her cheeks as she raises her hand to the light and turns to show him. The beep of the fridge sounds distant in his ears when she closes the distance between them and cups his chin in both hands, the band cool against his face as she kisses him.

“Thank you,” she says plainly, thumbs stroking his cheeks. 

“ _And Associates_ ,” he says, hands coming to rest on her waist. “Silent partner, so I figured we could make at least one end of the deal more official.”

“Very thoughtful,” she muses dryly, smoothing her hands down his front, patting his lapels before leaning aside to shove the refrigerator door closed. “And what about for you?”

He smiles sadly. “Saul Goodman’s not married.”

“What if you weren’t Saul Goodman tonight?” She asks, plucking the bluetooth out of his ear and placing it on the counter. “What if you were...” she tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Viktor with a K, floating in the pool, waiting for your next mark.”

She helps him out of his suit jacket, untucking his salmon shirt, pulling the knot out of his garishly patterned tie. 

“You spot him from across the way — the well-dressed businessman with a woman far too young for him to be anything but an escort.” 

She slips the tie from around his neck, hanging it over the bar stool. 

“As they get closer, you answer your phone, talking just loudly enough for them to hear,” she continues, popping open each button of his shirt. “You tell whoever’s on the other end of the line that the deal is going through any day now, that your lawyers have told you the acquisition is going to be huge.”

Kim pushes the shirt over his shoulders, peeling back his layers of Saul. 

“You drop just enough juicy hints as to your multi-million dollar merger that when you climb out of the pool, the guy simply has to ask,” she fingers his belt buckle, giving it a sharp tug to punctuate the end of her sentence. “And then you wow him with your gift of words, getting him to invest not just in _your_ company but the soon-to-be parent conglomerate, promising a threefold return.”

She rises up on her tiptoes, tongue snaking out as she nips his earlobe. “To avoid confusion, you tell him to make the check out to Ice Station Zebra Associates. Your lawyer will take care of everything from there.”

“And who are you tonight?” Jimmy asks, his voice strained, starting to pull her towards the bedroom. “Giselle Saint Claire? Mrs. James Morgan McGill?”

“No,” she says simply, pausing, left hand coming up to graze his cheek. “I’m Kim Wexler.”

//

Later, it’s her touch that he misses most. 

Gene Takovic has no shortage of human interaction in his life, days full of customers and employees exchanging pleasantries, fake smiles, or change for a twenty, but when Jimmy McGill sits alone at night, his skin burns with the absence of connection. 

There’s the version he conjures up at night when he’s lonely, the feeling of warm palms against hot skin; but mostly it’s a gentle scratch of nails down his back as she waits for the coffeemaker to come to life, an unceremonious hand propped up on this thigh while watching TV, waking up in the middle of the night to find an arm slung around his waist. 

He thinks of his birthday two years ago, her voice tinny through his end of the pay phone as he gripped the receiver as tightly as possible, closing his eyes to evoke the familiar rumble of her chest under his ear. 

He’s beginning to feel the years, and he would give anything to trade them for her.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the last line lovingly and respectfully thieved from a Brandi Carlile song. Thanks for reading!


End file.
